


The Kirkwall Years

by spaceythegay



Series: Racing to Infinity [1]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, And Anders is Sad, Anders deals with Justice in a healthy manner, Anders does not have a heathly relationship with food, Darkspawn, Deep Roads (Dragon Age), Eating Disorders, F/F, Fenris does not have healthy coping mechanisms, Fenris learns to read, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Implied/Referenced Suicide, M/M, Multi, Purple Hawke (Dragon Age), Self Harm, There's blood magic, Threesome - M/M/M, Warden Amell (Dragon Age)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-08-25
Updated: 2020-02-18
Packaged: 2020-09-26 03:03:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 12,343
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20382619
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spaceythegay/pseuds/spaceythegay
Summary: He was balanced precariously, and every day that they were down in the darkspawn-infested, blighted Deep Roads was another day that Anders spent in the presence of everything he wanted but could never have.





	1. The Deep Roads

The trouble began, as it always did (as he believed it always would) in the Deep Roads. It wasn’t really a problem per se, but troubling nonetheless. Anders wanted nothing to do with the emotions that this trek was bringing to the fore, but he supposed that he just had to suck it up and deal with it.

Anders glanced across the fire to the other two men. Hawke’s teeth gleamed in the light as he laughed at something that Fenris said. Anders let out his breath in a sigh and tilted his head all the way back to stare up at the darkness. On the one hand, the sound of Hawke’s laughter was the source of Anders’ problems. On the other hand, it was the sly smile on Fenris’ face, a smile that Anders had little opportunity to see before now. The only interactions the mage had with Fenris before they descended into the Deep Roads for weeks on end was at best snide comments and glowers to at the very worst accusations of _wanting_ to be a slaver. As if Anders wasn’t aware that slavery in Tevinter wasn’t something to be envious of. As if Anders had never seen elves with scars around their wrists, who came into his clinic but left as soon as they noticed he was a mage. Anders tried not to think about it too often, as it was yet another thing that drew Justice to the surface and made Anders loose control — a dangerous thing to do when there was a clinic full of injured people to contend with.

Now though, Fenris was laughing with Hawke, his smile completely changing his face. Anders’ affection for Hawke ran deep in his heart, like a vein of lyrium taken root, like magic, like life, and until now Anders thought that Hawke returned those feelings. How else was he supposed to interpret the earnest assurances of help peppered with truly terrible pick up lines? But that assumption was incorrect: Hawke flirted outrageously with everyone. And last night…

This was the Trouble, Anders decided, putting a capital T on the word. Last night, Fenris had revealed that he was unable to read — something that Anders was ashamed not to have figured out on his own. He had dim memories of his parents teaching him his letters long before the templars had first found him, and slightly clearer memories of learning Trade later in the circle. Every lesson in the Circle came with a book to read, or a particular diagram to decipher. Often there was nothing to do but read. As well, Anders had always found that the darkened corners of the library was the best place for illicit activities. It was safe to say that much of Anders’ pre-Warden life revolved around the written word. To know that Fenris — of all people — was unable to read was startling. To watch Hawke’s eyes turn soft at Fenris’ whispered confession and the way Hawke’s mouth turned down at the corners as he earnestly promised to teach the elf, even more so. Hawke genuinely cared about this relatively small fact of Fenris’ existence, far more than he ever appeared to care about anything about Anders’ life.

This — pain, Anders supposed he ought to be feeling, though in reality it was more a feeling of inevitability — was not the extent of the Trouble. In and of itself, the knowledge that Hawke did not share his affections was inconsequential at best. Anders never expected that they would share a life and with Justice, Anders had long since come to the conclusion that there was no hope for that part of his life any more. There was nothing he could offer a man like Hawke. The Trouble was Fenris. Fenris, who, when prompted, could smile with his eyes only, who made cutting comments in the driest of tones so that it was only minutes later that Anders even got the joke. Fenris who sprang into battle without the slightest care for his own safety and swung a sword nearly as tall as he was with all the grace of an Orlesian dancer. Fenris who cared so much about the plight of his people in Tevinter that his eyes would spark and glow the colour of the lyrium etched into his skin whenever he spoke of his homeland. Fenris whose lithe arms were deceptively strong —

Anders cut off that line of thinking as quickly as he could. He was balanced precariously, and every day that they were down in the darkspawn-infested, blighted Deep Roads was another day that Anders spent in the presence of everything he wanted but could never have. That it would come from a place an unexpected at Fenris, well… He was used to taking what the Maker gave him.

He startled as Merrill tapped him on the shoulder to ask him a question about a spell he had used earlier in the day and Anders sat up straight, happy to have a distraction from his thoughts. The discussion became very technical very fast, and then Merrill needed a demonstration and that required clear ground several meters away from their camp. And of course it was late enough (according to the dwarves anyway, Anders could never tell what time it was down here, yet another reason he made for a spectacularly bad Warden) that they woke up the “day” scouts and were yelled at for a bit while Varric laughed. By the time they returned to the Hawke’s portion of the camp, Anders had successfully avoided thinking about the Trouble for several hours.

Approaching the fire again, he waved in response to Merrill’s cheerful goodnight and sat close to flames, trying to get some warmth into his bones before he attempted to sleep on the cold stone of the floor.

“What were you doing?” A voice interrupted Anders contemplation of the flames. He glanced up, expecting Varric, or perhaps Hawke. But no, the voice belonged to Fenris. Fenris never willing spoke to Anders without at least one other person present and even then it was invariably antagonistic. Fenris rolled his eyes, and growled, “Close your mouth, mage, I was just wondering.”

Anders snapped his mouth shut. After a moment, Anders ventured, “It was a spell I call Regroup,” Fenris rolled his eyes again. 

“Does it look like I know what that means?”

Anders continued, quickly, before Fenris could walk away. “It is one of the strongest healing spells I know,” Anders turned back to stare at the dwindling fire. “It uses my own life force to heal. I don’t often use it in combat, for obvious reasons. Merrill wanted to know more about it.”

Anders risked a glance towards the elf, who was now staring at Anders as if he had two heads, or perhaps a smear of ash in the shape of a phallus on his cheek. “But today in the fight with the darkspawn, you…” Fenris trailed off and turned abruptly. “I’m going to bed.” He said to the air above Anders’ head, his accent hitting the consonants sharply. He spun on his heal and found a spot as far away from Anders’ own bedroll as he could while still staying within the bounds of camp.

Anders didn’t blame the elf. Earlier that day, the four of them had been scouting out a portion of the Roads when they had run across a fairly sizeable group of hurlocks. Anders had thanked the Maker that there hadn’t been any alphas or mages with the group. Still, a group of twenty-odd was more than enough to nearly overwhelm the four of them and during the worst of the battle, Fenris had been struck in the back. Anders shivered as he recalled what had nearly been the end of Fenris.

_“Fenris!” Anders called as loud as he dared in unexplored darkspawn territory. The hurlock was running at Fenris with an axe held high, but Fenris was too busy fending off the three in front of him to turn and defend against a fourth. There was nothing Anders could do but watch as the hurlock’s weapon cleaved down and caught the elf on the shoulder with enough force for his knees to buckle. The other three hurlocks took their chance and moved in on the elf, who tried desperately to raise his sword one handed, his injured arm hanging limply. Fenris had a fierce snarl on his face and his eyebrows where angled so extremely that for a bizarre moment Anders thought they might cover his eyes entirely._

_Anders ran towards Fenris and used the business end of his staff to gut the hurlocks so that he could heal Fenris. As the last body slumped to the side, Anders glanced down to see that Fenris was prone, a frighteningly large pool of blood spreading away from his body. Anders could not, would not, allow the elf to die in this miserable hole in the ground, miles away from the light of day. So he did what was most natural to him — what had always been most natural to him — and reached out into the calming void of the Fade. His mana, already depleted, quickly ran out, but Fenris still was bleeding. So Anders grit his teeth and pushed his own vital energy into Fenris’ prone body._

_Finally, Fenris rolled over and coughed several times, spitting out blood. He looked at Anders and nodded once, before reaching for his fallen sword and leaping into combat once more. Anders looked around at the rest of his party, blinking spots out of his vision. Hawke was laughing manically as he stabbed two darkspawn at once, and Merrill appeared to have covered herself with rubble from the ground and was punching hurlocks with a stone fist at least twice as big as her head. Anders managed to swing his staff around in time to block an attack from another hurlock and, too tired to cast any spells, began fighting with his staff, glad for what was far from the first time that he had spent months learning staff fighting with Nathaniel._

_The hurlocks dead, Anders could sit down and rummage through his pack to grab a lyrium potion so that he could heal himself enough to make it back to the camp. He let the potion fill him with the steady cool of restored mana and looked around to see Hawke checking the corpses for anything useful and Merrill cheerfully shaking rocks out of her clothes. Fenris was glaring at the empty bottle Anders still held in his hand. Anders tilted an eyebrow in question, and Fenris bared a sharp canine. Finally, after several seconds of tense eye contact, the elf rolled his shoulders — impossibly broad on his small frame — and sheathed his sword, going to Hawke and seeing if he needed help. Anders left the pair to their corpses and downed a health restorative, washing it down with another lyrium drought. Any help he could get in this hellscape was help desperately needed._

Anders had thought that would be the end of it. They had shared a moment of understanding in the field, Fenris had disapproved of the way that Anders used magic, all was normal. Anders supposed that he had never used that particular spell during combat before — even in his clinic, that sort of extreme was very rarely called for, but it was nothing outside Anders scope of abilities and he had thought that Fenris was pretty well versed in the strengths and weaknesses of Hawke’s mage companions. Anders resigned himself to the knowledge that Fenris would always be slightly inscrutable.

By the time that someone had woken Bartrand and he was stomping around, yelling at his poor underlings to, “Hurry up and break camp, or so help me the Ancestors won’t even be able to find your body!” Anders’ back ached from the hard stone and his eyes felt gritty with a lack of sleep. He pushed himself up and began the process of rolling up his bedroll and packing the rest of his few belongings. If there was one thing he was grateful to Solona Amell about, it was that she had taught him the necessities of travel. If he thought about how his circle-pampered younger self would have fared on a journey this deep into the Roads — weeks with only a few others and the wild nugs as company, darkspawn around every corner, and the dark all around — well. Anders didn’t doubt that he would not have lasted long at all. Now at least he had the decency to complain in his head — besides, nobody needed to know that being in the Deep Roads gave him screaming nightmares, and that he had been sustaining himself on lyrium, drawing energy from the Fade since then. A week of no sleep was not the longest Anders had ever gone, but he was no longer fifteen. It was hard to listen for darkspawn when his grip on reality was weak.

Packing up the last of his things and swinging the pack onto his back, Anders had to brace himself on a wall for a moment as the world wobbled dangerously in front of him. He fumbled with his belt pouch, and downed a bottle of lyrium, drawing on the Fade more strongly for a moment. With the amount of lyrium he had ingested over the last week he could imagine that he could feel where Justice lay, dormant next to his soul. It felt like the third time he had been caught escaping the circle and the templars had taken his food privileges for a month. When he was finally allowed to eat with the others again he had stolen a stick of butter, and hiding in the library, eaten the whole thing. After, he could feel the disgusting weight of the lard heavy in his stomach. Justice felt like the butter had — a greasy, heavy weight that didn’t belong, too big in the back of Anders’ throat, like if he just opened his mouth wide enough Justice would fall out in splat on the ground like so much vomit.

Anders took a deep breath to steady his stomach and forced himself to think of happier things. Like: The look Varric’s face if he told the dwarf that his close personal friend was the Warden Commander of Ferelden. That image managed to distract him enough that he could eat a portion of the slop they called porridge fast enough that he couldn’t taste it. Maker only knew what they used this far into the Deep Roads that hadn’t gone bad or been eaten already. He had a vague idea that was what the one merchant — Anders thought his name was Bodahn? — Was doing with the expedition. Andraste knew that they hadn’t found anything worth purchasing yet.

Hawke’s group — including Varric, who looked relieved to be out from the thumb of his brother for once — took off into the darkness away from the slower moving caravan. As the day inched along and the only resistance they found was a small nest of spiders, Anders started to get increasingly worried. Traditionally, when Wardens came to the Deep Roads, they followed the highest concentration of darkspawn and eventually they came across a Thaig. A large area, previously inhabited, was perfect for the ‘spawn, and the closer to other inhabited Thaigs the better. Killing the unwary for food, or turning them into broodmothers was imperative the continuation to the species.

He followed the song that always hummed in the back of his mind (never forgotten, always ignored) to discover that the nearest concentration of darkspawn was miles away _in the opposite direction._ Now Anders really was worried: anywhere that didn’t have darkspawn was sure to have something much worse. Something that Anders could not protect them from — being immune to the Blight only went so far this deep underground. He took a breath. He hated the Deep Roads.

His companions, however, were unworried. Hawke smirked, “What could be worse than darkspawn?” Varric laughed in agreement. Merrill seemed to be intent on collecting Deep Mushrooms (whether to eat or use in some other…. Merrill way… Anders couldn’t say). Fenris seemed to be the only one to take Anders warning to heart — he at least, knew that there was a lot in the world that could be worse than mere darkspawn.

Anders was right. It wasn’t very nice to be right, he thought as he fought the horrific beings of rock and energy, but at least he _was_. Bartrand’s betrayal stung, but the thought of spending weeks more in the dark with only four other people and no supplies but the ones on their backs made his mind blank out in terror. Plus, the heart-stopping moment when he was sure Hawke was going to accept the Wraith’s proposal would haunt his nightmares whenever he next managed to sleep.

Then they found the creature that was guarding the door out and Anders was sure he would never sleep again, images of Hawke and Fenris failing to get to cover on time, the creature’s poisonous red light draining them before Anders’ eyes. He was thankful that Merrill preferred the rocky corners and Varric was too smart to get caught. The battle won, they struggled into the relative safety of the Roads and began their journey to the surface.


	2. Decisions, Decisions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Kirkwall loomed closer than Fenris expected, close enough that they could most likely arrive at the gate by dawn, judging by the location of the stars. That would mean that it would only take a few hours before Anders was half a city away from him again._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It counts as "a couple days" if I post at midnight, right?

Fenris’ eyes shut involuntarily in the moonlight as they crested the final rise and left the Deep Roads behind them. The moon was full, and it was the brightest light any of them had seen in several weeks. Merrill seemed unaffected by the change in scenery, apart from running to the grass and digging her toes into the loam. Varric and Hawke seemed to be doing some sort of complicated handshake in congratulations.

Anders was the anomaly. He appeared to have stopped on the cusp of the exit to the Deep Roads and fallen to his knees, his eyes wide open and staring at the pinprick stars, his mouth was moving in what looked like a prayer. Fenris glanced over at Hawke, who seemed to be finished his complicated dance with Varric and was now discussing… something Fenris would rather not know about, if the expression on his face was any indication. He took a moment to admire the cut of his jaw, square and strong, his mouth tilted in a fierce smirk, eyes burning with bright, kinetic energy set beneath dark brows. Fenris shifted and glanced back over at the mage, expecting to see him still absorbed in his ritual of relief.

“Mage?” he called, surprised. Anders had slumped over, unconscious. Hawke glanced up and over Varric’s head, eyes widening with shock. He rushed over to the mage, Merrill joining them from where she had been communing with nature, the pair kneeling by the collapsed man.

“What happened?” Varric sidled up to Fenris. “What did you see?”

Fenris shifted uncomfortably. “He was muttering something. I looked away, and the next thing I knew…” Fenris crossed his arms and shrugged his shoulders. He didn’t care about the mage, his mind too unpredictable, his power too wild for the elf to anticipate his next move. He needed to always be on guard around him, always watching for him to slip, for his _abomination_ to come out and destroy everything around him. He needed a keeper, so that the abomination could be stopped before it killed Hawke. Or anyone else, for that matter.

“You’re allowed to be worried about him,” There was a knowing look in Varric’s eyes as he patted Fenris’ elbow and walked away towards the rest of the group. Fenris growled under his breath and looked toward the city. Varric had no idea what he was talking about.

Kirkwall loomed closer than Fenris expected, close enough that they could most likely arrive at the gate by dawn, judging by the location of the stars. That would mean that it would only take a few hours before Anders was half a city away from him again.

Hawke approached Fenris, standing just behind his left shoulder. He could feel the warmth of the larger man’s chest on his back even from several inches away. His body broke out in goose bumps and he suppressed a shiver. The way that Hawke affected him was so different from anything he had memory of, and the intensity frightened him. “It looks like Anders fainted. He wasn’t sleeping — the silly man. He’s asleep now, and too deep to wake easily.” Hawke’s voice was warm with affection and worry. Fenris could feel his mouth twist in annoyance.

“It will only take us couple hours,” Fenris offered, pointing his chin at the city. “We can be there before dawn.” 

“Good, that’s good.” Hawke grabbed Fenris’ shoulder and gave it a squeeze. “Thank you.” Fenris nodded, and Hawke moved away again. Fenris resisted urge to rub the spot that Hawke had touched, sure that there was a hand print burned into his shoulder.

The group had moved slightly away from Anders’ softly snoring body, and were arguing about who would carry him back to the city. Fenris approached just in time to catch Varric saying, “…You look like one stiff breeze will knock you over, Daisy. Besides, how will you collect your herbs with this lanky fellow on your back?”

Merrill pouted, “I can too! He’s my friend too, I’m not going to let his legs get dragged through the mud by _you._” She clapped a hand over her mouth, and Hawke boomed out a laugh.

“Hey shortstuff, I think you’ve been out-voted!” Hawke reached out a big hand and ruffled the top of Varric’s head. Varric grinned in response and pushed Hawke’s arm off, jabbing him in the side.

“I’ll do it.” Fenris heard himself say. At least, he reasoned, this way he could keep an eye on the mage, and if he did turn abomination on the way to the city, it would be easy to finish him off.

“You will?” Hawke sounded shocked and hopeful. Fenris glared at the man until he raised his hands in mock surrender. “I mean, of course you will.” Fenris nodded decisively and swung the fallen mage’s bag over his shoulder. 

“See, Chuckles,” He heard Varric’s voice say, accompanied by the sound of coin of changing hands. “What did I tell you?” Fenris decided that he was going to ignore that, and began the process of securing the sleeping mage to his back. There was some difficulties at first with trying to balance the mage and _Lethendralis_ at the same time, until Hawke took the sword and strapped it to his back with Anders’ staff so that Fenris could use his baldric and a piece of spare rope to rig a sort of harness. Fenris checked his belt for his dagger — this close to the man, he wouldn’t need his sword if anything happened. As he hitched the mage to a lightly hight position on his back, he grunted in shock at how _light_ the man was. With his layers of clothes and huge feathered coat, Fenris assumed that the man was more solid — and yet he was barely heavier than _Lethendralis_.

Fenris began to walk toward the glowing lights of Kirkwall in the distance, confident that his companions would follow or be left behind. Anders’ head rolled slightly so his face was tucked into Fenris’ neck. Fenris hesitated a moment, fighting the urge to move the mage’s head somewhere else. After a moment, it occurred to him that this was actually more a positive turn of event than it could be. The mage’s breaths were deep and even, and even if it was distracting, Fenris would be able to tell if anything changed much easier than if Anders’ face was pointed elsewhere. That decided, Fenris lengthened his stride and continued the long walk to Kirkwall.

The sun was just cresting the horizon, when they approached the formidable land-gates of Kirkwall. They were only slightly less impressive than the harbour, but only just. Unfortunately, they were also shut. Which seemed obvious in retrospect, but it was not something that Fenris had thought would be a problem this close the end of their journey. 

“Quick — act drunk, I have an idea.” Varric hissed at the group. He stumbled up to the gate and banged loudly on the doors. Hawke — ever ready to go along with Varric’s harebrained schemes — immediately staggered up to door. Fenris spared a moment to wonder how Anders’ would act drunk, trying to come up with an example of actual drunkenness to compare too. When that came up empty, Fenris shifted his hold on the man and stood back. Fenris wasn’t sure he could be as deliberately oblivious as the other three, so resolved to remain silent for the most part.

“Hey!” Varric yelled, increasing his pounding. A small window slammed open at human eye level and a face in a guardsman helmet appeared in the door.

“Shoulda guessed it was you,” The man said in a drawl. “What’re you doing out of the city so early, Varric?”

“I’m drunk!” Hawke announced happily and with all the sincerity of someone who doesn’t know what they are saying. If Fenris did not know better, he would have believed the man. “Was my name day,” His head dropped to his shoulder and Fenris could just imagine the goofy grin of his face. Though — _venhedis_, when _was_ Hawke’s name day? Had Hawke had one in the Deep Roads? Fenris wasn’t sure if he would have done anything, but it would have been nice to know.

The guardsman grinned, “Yeah, I can see that,” His head ducked out of the window and Fenris could hear him yell at someone further in, and the gate began to swing open. Varric and Hawke made a convincing show of falling over themselves to get out of the way, Merrill laughing in the background. The gate creaked to a halt after it had opened enough to let the group get through, and the three “drunkards” began to stumble through, Fenris and his burden taking up the rear. He hoped that they were clear now, and Fenris could figure out what to do with the unconscious mage on his back.

“Hey, what’s with your friend?” The guardsman said, popping the small bubble of hope that Fenris had — he _really_ didn’t think that he could come up with a suitably drunk-sounding excuse.

“Had too much,” Varric slurred, miming drinking from a bottle. Fenris flashed a grateful look at Varric once the guardsman turned away with a knowing look.

Safely away from the guardsman’s prying eyes, and prying eyes in general — people in this part of Lowtown knew to keep out of other people’s business, and the ones that made their living on knowing what they shouldn’t weren’t out yet.

“Alright,” Varric paused on a street corner, “I need to make the rounds before the sun gets any higher, maybe let Aveline that we’re back. Ask around, see if anyone has got word of my miserable brother.”

Merrill nodded knowingly and added, “I’ll have to send word to Keeper Marethari, she’ll be relieved to know we’ve returned!” After a quick hug from the other two, and an aborted hug towards Fenris once she caught the expression on his face, she turned and marched off into the slowly brightening streets of Lowtown.

Varric patted Hawke’s arm and with a final nod, took off in the opposite direction.

“So,” Fenris started. Hawke turned his head from where he was… glaring? At the back of Varric’s head. After an awkward second, Fenris decided to ignore it and tally it up to ‘Hawke-weirdness’. “Where does he live?” Fenris jostled the still-sleeping mage to make it obvious that was who he was talking about. 

“Oh!” Hawke’s eyes widened in surprise. “Oh, uh. You don’t know?” Fenris shook his head. If he _had_, he would have said. “He lives in a back room of his clinic.” Fenris supposed that made sense — though why anyone would go to that trash pit for _healing_ was beyond him. Hawke frowned. “Though, it’s not a very good place for convalescence.” Which was Fenris’ _point._ Hawke’s face brightened, “I’ll take him to Gamlen’s house.” Well. That was worse — Fenris had seen the inside of Gamlen’s house, and _that_ was no place for a convalescent _either_. There was no choice then.

“I’ll take him to my home,” Fenris interrupted whatever Hawke complaining about — something to do with moving mattresses and keeping Gamlen out of the back room. Hawke stoped in mid sentence to stare at Fenris blankly.

“You _will_?” Hawke looked searchingly at Fenris. After a moment, he seemed to accept that Fenris was telling the truth and a slow smile started to form on his face. “Thank you,” He stepped forward and grabbed Fenris by his shoulders — careful to not upset Anders — and pulled him close to the taller man. Fenris, a little shocked as this blatant display of affection, stood a little stiffly as Hawke wrapped his around the Fenris, his palms ending up on Anders’ back. Fenris was sure that he could feel his face burning with the closeness of the man, his wide chest providing the most comfort and protection that Fenris had experienced in… A long time. Even the mage on his back wasn’t enough to ruin the comfort from Hawke's embrace.

The three of them began the walk to the Hightown estates, the few early risers and merchants setting up their stalls giving them the odd look. Fenris thought that was fair, they certainly weren’t the average early morning Kirkwall resident, but perhaps not the most unusual. That was reinforced as Fenris passed a man who was dressed in eye-wateringly bright coloured clothes that appeared to have been torn apart by something with large claws and sewn back together. Twice.

By the time they made it to the Hightown market square, it was late enough that there was a sizeable crowd in front of the few food stalls, made up mostly of servants from the various houses purchasing their food for the day. It was about then that Fenris realized that not only would he have to give up his bed to a _mage, _but that Hawke was going to have to see more of the estate than he usually did. Somehow, this part of bringing Anders home had escaped him. Normally, Fenris wouldn’t have necessarily had a problem with Hawke seeing his bedroom, but. Not with Anders there, with the understanding that Anders was going to _sleep _there. That made Fenris feel… Something he didn’t want to examine too closely. Maybe he could persuade Hawke to leave his and Anders’ things in the entry way.

This problem took him all the way to his front door, and Fenris hesitated a moment before unlocking the door and pushing his way in. “You can leave that stuff there,” Fenris gestured to the least dusty corner of the room. “I can take it from here.”

Hawke gave him an inscrutable look and, perhaps noticing his level of awkwardness, shrugged and dropped the extra packs on the ground. There was a comical puff of dust as he did so, and Fenris resisted the urge to wince. Just because he kept most of the estate in the same destroyed state as he found it (he found the bloodstains to be a good way to keep off potential looters) didn’t mean he _enjoyed_ the mess. At least Hawke took the care to place _Lethendralis_ carefully on a table that had found its way into the front room. After one last long look, his face shadowed in the darkness, he left.

Fenris breathed a sigh of relief. He was alone, apart from the unconscious man still tied to his back. No more need to make nice with the living, and _definitely_ no more need to pretend he liked the company that Hawke kept. After so long in the constant presence of them, Fenris took a moment to enjoy the silence before grabbing the straps of the bags in one hand and the hilt of _Lethendralis_ in the other.

Depositing the bag in a corner of his bedroom, and placing the great sword on its rack was the work of seconds. Trying to get Anders onto the bed was considerably more difficult. After several false starts and a moment when he wasn’t sure if Anders would fall off the bed or his shoulder would dislocate first, he managed to maneuver the mage onto the bed. He stood a moment, hands on hips, wondering at the man’s ability to sleep through all of that. He took a longer look, and a deep breath, and decided that the feathered coat would have to go. Mage or not, Fenris was _not_ going to let that smelly pile of rags stay on the bed that he _slept_ in for much longer. Carefully, he pulled the coat off the man, and let it fall beside the bed.

The coat hid a lot, it appeared. The coat was thick, and felt like it was filled with cotton in addition to the feathered pauldrons, and its sleeves were long. Without it, Anders looked dangerously thin, his collarbones sticking up far too much to be healthy. A closer look at the man’s face revealed sunken cheeks and dark bruises under his eyes. Fenris furrowed his brow in thought. He hadn’t noticed, even considering how close an eye he usually kept on him. He wondered if Hawke had noticed — or even Varric, they seemed to be close. Why hadn’t anyone known that Anders was ill? 

Fenris paused his contemplation of Anders’ face to shut the door. The quick checking of locks (handle, deadbolt, latch) was a comforting ritual. Facing Anders again was not. He decided to pull the filthy, grime-caked bandages from Anders’ arms, and pull off his boots before getting him under the covers. The boots were easy, and they found a home in the corner by their packs. But Fenris had to resort to his belt knife to remove the bandages, and as the last one fell to the floor, Fenris paused in shock. 

There were long scars on the mage’s arms, scars that he recognized. They were strikingly similar to the ones that many Magister’s sported with pride, ones that he had seen on Merrill’s arms as well, but the subtle difference was telling. On those mages that used blood magic, their scars were slim, well healed, and numerous. They also tended to be on the muscle of the arm, well away from the vital veins of the arm — it wouldn’t do to bleed out before their spell was finished, after all. Anders’ scars were also slim and numerous, but they were over the large veins, as if the man was taunting fate. Fenris did not think that they were blood magic scars, for each arm was dominated by a long, thick scar that went from his wrist to his elbow. This was a scar that Fenris had seen on more than one occasion in Danarius’ house. It was rare that such an injury had the time to heal into a scar. Anders had tried to kill himself.

Fenris slowly finished tucking the mage into the bed before wrapping himself in a spare blanket to sleep on the floor. It felt like the world had shifted beneath his feet, this knowledge of Anders forcing him to reevaluate his opinion on the mage. It was not slavery, for all the mage professed they were the same, but these Circles of the South were perhaps not the solution Fenris though they were.

He grunted and curled into a ball, deciding that any further revelations about this would happen after he woke. Preferably with at least a half bottle of wine in him.


	3. A New Home?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _He had to write Solona immediately, fear of discovery or not. Maker curse the Amells and their ability to drag Anders into trouble. At least Solona would laugh._

Anders woke slowly, feeling like he was waking up after a long time — how long, he couldn’t say. For a moment, Anders thought he had died, and that this was his reward — no nightmares, and a soft mattress, covers that felt like velvet and clothes that were softer that anything Anders had owned in many years.

He opened his eyes, hoping for more clues as to where he was. He had ruled out the clinic — his bed was nothing more than a pile of old blankets and his room was never quiet. He had never seen the inside of Hawke’s room at Gamlen’s house, but assumed that the mattress quality wasn’t much better than that at the Hanged Man. Varric’s room doubled as his office, and none of the dwarf’s clothes would fit a tall human. He had no idea where Isabela slept, but was sure that he didn’t want to know. Perhaps with Merrill? 

The ceiling of the room held no more clues. It was stone grey, a stray cobweb hanging in the shadows of one corner. A high window let in the warm light of a setting sun. Anders rolled over and tried to prop himself up, a movement that took far more effort than usual. How long had he been asleep? The last thing he remembered was the sheer relief at the sight of the moon after so long in the dark. And — Fenris? He thought he had a memory of Fenris propping him up, glaring at him as he drank something salted and warm from a bowl. That couldn’t be right, though. 

The room he was in was well furnished, though austere. There was the large bed he had woken in, a carpet on the floor that looked very soft. There was a large wardrobe on the wall under the window, one door slightly ajar. On the wall beside this there was an empty weapon rack, one that looked to hold a sword, or a bow. There was a desk with a few papers, a pencil, and several slim books. Anders couldn’t see the titles from here, but they looked brightly coloured, like children’s books. Above the desk there were several beautiful sketches of various locations around Kirkwall nailed to the wall. There was a wide chair with stuffed upholstery, a blanket folded neatly on the seat. On the floor beside the bed was a sleeping mat, a thin mattress that looked well-used, a single pillow on one end and another blanket folded at the other. Tucked under the chair, Anders could see his pack, and hanging on a hook by the bed was his coat, much brighter than he remembered, the feathers gleaming as though freshly oiled. 

Anders swung his feet onto the carpet (he had thought correct, it was just as soft and plush as it looked) and lurched to his feet, staying upright through force of will. He looked down at himself. He was wearing grey trousers and a large grey shirt, but not much else. The shirt was long enough to cover his arms to the wrist, and Anders had a moment of panic at the realization that someone had removed the bandages that he normally kept wrapped around his forearms. 

The question remained: where was he, and who had cared for him? Anders stumbled to the chair and wrapped the blanket around himself as an added layer of protection and took a breath before braving the door. It took a few moments longer than it probably should have to figure out the locks, but in his defence there were three, and it took a little trial and error to find the only one that was latched.

The hallway was familiar in a way that Anders couldn’t place. He was definitely in a noble’s manor, albeit one that was abandoned. Walking softly was no effort in bare feet, and as he walked down the corridor the feeling that he had been here before only increased. He could hear voices coming from farther along, and he braced himself on the wall as he forced himself through the door into a larger room, just as ruined as the hallway he had walked through. All of a sudden, the familiarity of the manor snapped into place. This was _Fenris’_ manor and that was _Hawke’s_ voice, sounding frustrated as he spoke. Anders paused in the doorway, breathing for a moment. That couldn’t have been Fenris’ room. There was no way the elf would have agreed to take hime in. Fenris could barely be in the same room as him, let alone allow him to sleep in his bed. Anders pushed himself onward, determined to get answers. 

As he tried to propel himself up the stairs he could hear the argument getting louder, but the door was thick enough to prevent Anders from hearing anything through it. Suddenly, the door banged open and Hawke stalked out of the room, calling over his shoulder, “Those papers better be done before tomorrow, or I will — Anders!” The man had finally glimpsed Anders clinging to the railing and paused his tirade in shock. The pair of them looked at each other in shock for a moment as Fenris’ voice came from the room.

“You’ll do what? What could you _possibly_ make me do?” The elf paused in the door just behind Hawke and, in nearly the same tone of voice as Hawke, exclaimed, “Anders!”

“Yes, that’s me,” Anders said, smirking a little. He decided he wouldn’t bring the pair’s similarity to light right then. 

Fenris’ eyebrows lowered dramatically, and he pushed Hawke out of the way. “What are you doing up? We’re done here,” That was said with a nasty glance at Hawke, “I would have…” He trailed off, still glaring at Hawke. “I’ll be back.” He then spun on his heel and marched off into the bowels of the manor. 

Hawke sighed and moved down the stairs to wrap an arm around Anders’ waist and help him up the rest of the stairs. “That’s an awfully thin blanket,” He mused. “Maybe I should have insisted you stayed with me and Mother.” 

“Oh Maker no,” Anders blurted out without thinking. He remembered the filthy hovel Gamlen called home, and from the few times that he had been in the place, it was clear that the three of them shared a single bedroom. Anders didn’t think he would feel as well as he did if he had slept there instead of the appalling comfortable room he had woken in. But he didn’t think that Hawke needed to know about Fenris’ bedroom if the elf hadn’t seen fit to tell him.

That thought left Anders feeling… weird, as clearly the elf _had_ decided to share that carefully protected room with him. But not Hawke, who was rubbing a corner of Anders’ blanket between two fingers, his skepticism of Fenris’ nursing skills clear on his face. 

Hawke helped him up the last of the stairs and into the room he had burst out of so recently. In the room there was a couple benches arranged haphazardly in front of a roaring fire, and a low table strewn with papers. Along the wall opposite from the fireplace was what appeared to once be a day bed, but was now serving as a storage spot for Fenris’ greatsword. Hawke left Anders leaning on the wall and carefully moved the weapon to a bench before depositing him on the day bed. 

“How are you feeling?” Hawke worried at Anders, tucking the blanket more firmly around his shoulders. “Are you all right?”

Anders nodded and dredged up a smile. “I feel… good, considering.” At this point, Anders figured that upon leaving the Deep Roads his stupid body had decided to give up on him. He took a deep breath and asked the question that had really been pressing on him. “How long was I out?”

Hawke looked at him, worry clear on his face. Hawke really was one of the most expressive people Anders’ could remember ever knowing. You didn’t express emotions in the circle, at least where the templars could see. The Wardens were little better, the vast majority of them more interested in their duty than in their peers.

“It’s been five days since we’ve gotten back from the Deep Roads.” _Five days?_ Hawke couldn’t be serious. Anders said so, and Hawke shook his head. “There’s been a lot of stuff that’s happened, I—” He cut himself off and stood up suddenly, glancing out the window. “Andraste’s _flaming_ tits! I’m late!” He stood and ran out the room, vaulting over the railing and slamming out the front door.

Anders leaned forward in his seat to watch him go, thoroughly confused. Fenris entered the room a few seconds later, carrying a tray with a large pile of food on it. The pair stared at each other for a moment wide-eyed, before Fenris rolled his eyes and walked the rest of the way into the room. 

“That was… dramatic,” Anders volunteered. He came to the decision that he was not going to provoke Fenris any more than strictly necessary, as a thank you for letting him sleep for _five Maker-blighted days_ in what Anders only assumed was his own bed. 

Fenris snorted and put the tray down on one of the benches. “That’s one word for it,” He met Anders’ eyes and quickly looked away again. “This is for you, by the way.” He gestured at the tray.

Anders blinked in astonishment, and his gaze fell on the food. There was cheese and bread, a thick stew, and a hunk of what looked like cured ham. Anders felt his stomach rumble. He cautiously stood up and walked over to the bench, leaving his blanket behind on the day bed. His stomach rumbled again, louder, and Fenris huffed out a breath in what sounded suspiciously like a laugh. 

“Help yourself,” He said, and retreated to the other side of the paper-strewn table and began to sort through the papers. Anders fell on the food with abandon, and it was gone in record time. There was a few moments of silence as Anders took a deep breath and let the first good solid food he had eaten in months — maybe years — settle in his stomach. 

“So…” Anders started, looking at his hands, glancing up at Fenris through his eyelashes. “Five days? What happened?”

“Heh,” Fenris snorted, his hands moving mechanically. “You fainted. Collapsed as soon as you smelled fresh air again.”

“I—“

“Relax, mage.” Fenris glanced up at Anders and away again, his eyes unreadable. “In any case, Hawke was going to take you to Gamlen’s hellhole of a house, and I… disagreed.” 

“Maker forbid,” Anders shuddered in agreement. Fenris’ eyes crinkled up in the corners in a… smile? Anders wasn’t sure what to make of that. “And the others? What’s happened while I was out?” Anders heaved himself up off the floor and snagged the blanket left on the day bed once more. The room was warm from the fire but Anders was cold in his thin cotton clothes. Besides, it felt like another layer of protection between him and the elf.

Fenris began ticking off on his fingers, “Aveline has a murderer on the loose, and the Viscount doesn’t believe her. Isabela has some secret she’s not telling Hawke. Varric has been searching for Bartrand with little luck so far. Merrill got up the courage to fuck Bela,” Anders muttered ‘finally’ under his breath, “and the pair of them weren’t seen for several days. And Hawke’s mother has finally claimed her birthright, so the lot of them are moving into the Amell manor today.”

Anders sputtered. “Leandra is an _Amell?_”

Fenris squinted at him, “…Yes?”

“Maker’s holy balls!” Anders yelped. He had to write Solona _immediately_, fear of discovery or not. Maker curse the Amells and their ability to drag Anders into trouble. At least Solona would laugh. 

Fenris stopped the motion of his hands, staring at Anders for a moment before going back to his paper-sorting. At this point it looked more like Fenris was just moving papers between two piles. Not that Anders would blame him, he was no stranger to nervous gestures. 

And that was a thought that Anders did not expect to have. Fenris nervous? He never thought he would ever see the day that the elf had an emotion that wasn’t anger. Fenris was an escaped slave, Anders thought. A slave that had been relentlessly chased across Thedas. Anders could relate — the Wardens did not let people go easily. What would Karl say, that he had ignored this most basic fact of Fenris for three years? Well. Anders knew what Karl would say, and it was nothing flattering. 

He would have also pointed out that even if Justice made it hard for Anders to think, that sympathy was a human trait, and if he was so sure that he was not an Abomination, he had better start proving his humanity. Sympathy was something that Anders had been good at, Before. (Before the Wardens, before Justice, before the circle, before Karl’s death at his hands. Before.) 

Anders drew out of his thoughts with an effort. Fenris had stopped shuffling his papers and was frowning at the top one, eyebrows almost meeting in the middle. For one, wild moment, Anders nearly reached out to press his thumb between the winged white brows, to ease the elf’s discomfort. Anders quickly cleared his throat, making Fenris look up quickly, startled.

“What work has Hawke have you doing?”

“Oh, ah…” Fenris quickly looked away, staring intently out the window. Anders watched in astonishment as a flush appeared on the elf’s pale cheeks. “It’s what we discussed in the Deep Roads.”

Anders thought for a minute as Fenris got progressively redder. “The… reading?” Anders asked tentatively. What with all the confusion and panic after Bartrand’s betrayal, Anders had nearly forgotten about it.

“Yes.” Fenris’ response was short, and he sounded like he was ready for a fight. Anders took a moment to admire Fenris’ profile — strong and fierce, his thick brows and stern mouth giving him the likeness of a bird of prey, his shock of white hair surprising against the dark brown of his skin. The nearly translucent lines of the lyrium tattoos caught the late afternoon sun, standing out against the pink blush dusting his cheeks. Anders felt his breath catch in his throat. Fenris was beautiful in a way that the sharply handsome Hawke was not. Anders supposed that it on served him right, to realize that Fenris had feelings after all, and discover that he was an unfairly attractive man all in the same day. Anders had somewhat fruitlessly hoped that his attraction for the elf would stay in the Deep Roads.

“Is that going all right?” Anders asked tentatively. They had a fragile peace going, what with Fenris looking after Anders while he was unconscious, and Anders being privy to Fenris’ private room. He desperately did not want to ruin it by saying the wrong thing. 

Fenris looked straight at him, eyes narrowing as if he thought it was some sort of trick. Anders tried to look as innocent as possible. It must have worked, because Fenris replied with, “No. Not really.” He sighed and rubbed at his forehead. “I am too old to learn this.”

A glance around the room saw that there was several pieces of paper crumpled into balls tossed in the corner, and a book that appeared to have been thrown with some amount of force. Anders thought about Hawke, who was amazing in his own right, but did not seem to understand that other people could not absorb knowledge as quickly or completely as he could. 

“I could teach you,” Anders blurted out. Fenris’ eyes widened in shock, and the two of them stared at each other for a moment. “I,” Anders started. “That is,” He took a deep breath. “What I mean to say is that I have taught before, and you seem to be at a loss, and I could repay you for allowing me to stay here while I slept.”

Fenris blinked a couple more times. Anders coughed and stood up quickly, meaning to leave the room before his mouth said anything else without the permission of his brain. But as he stood up, the world faded in and out of focus and his head spun, making him lose balance and grab the nearest object to steady himself. As he blinked back to reality, he found that he was grasping Fenris’ shoulder, and the elf has one hand on Anders’ waist, the other on his arm, making sure that he didn’t fall. 

Anders looked into the wide hazel eyes that were shockingly near to his own, reading only worry there.

“You should be back in bed,” The elf said, using the hand on Anders’ waist to steer him out of the room and down the stairs. 

“But,” Anders protested, trying to squirm free. He wanted to retain at least a little bit of dignity. Fenris’ arms were like steel however, and would not allow Anders’ to get free. That made sense, Anders supposed, the elf swung a sword that probably weighted at least half as much at he did on a daily basis, and made it look effortless. Being effectively frogmarched to bed, however, brought up less-than-pleasant memories from the circle to mind. Anders allowed them to tease at the corners of his consciousness, but did not allow them any further, focussing instead of how pleasant it was that Fenris was no longer unwilling to come within a three foot circle of him. 

Back in the room, Fenris deposited Anders on the bed, and the mage curled into his stolen blanket to watch the elf. Fenris flicked all three locks shut on the door, before hanging his huge sword on the previously empty weapons rack. (When had he picked up the sword? Anders must have been truly out of it if he had not noticed a pause to grab the weapon.) Fenris then quickly striped out of his armour, hanging the pieces in the wardrobe, and leaving him dressed in an outfit very like the one that Anders was currently wearing, though the elf’s was black.

“Lay down,” Fenris ordered, shaking out the blanket that was on the mattress that was on the ground and wrapping around himself as he sat in the wide chair beside the desk. “You need to rest.”

Anders obeyed, feeling a little awkward that Fenris was apparently going to watch him sleep. He rolled over to face the wall, so he did not have to see the expression on Fenris’ face. “I was serious, you know. I really will try to teach you to read. But only if you want.” Anders lay waiting for a response for so long that he slipped into sleep.

The next few days passed in much the same way. Anders would sleep until late afternoon, then leave the small bedroom to find Hawke and Fenris in what Anders had dubbed ‘The Trash Room’. Fenris would leave to find Anders obscene amounts of food, and Hawke would worry at Anders. After that first day, Anders would take the time to slip into his jacket and boots before leaving the room, and Hawke worried less and less as the days slipped by.

One thing that did not change was Fenris’ apparent relief whenever Anders joined them, as it invariably meant an end to whatever lesson Hawke was conducting. Once, Anders waited just outside of the door, trying to see what was frustrating Fenris so much about Hawke’s lessons. However, Fenris still had not mentioned anything about Anders’ offer from the first day, so there was little that Anders could do about it even if he did figure out a solution.

Fenris seemed to think that Anders required enough food for three of him, and would not hear his protests otherwise. Truth be told, Anders had not eaten this well since he had left the Wardens. It was a nice feeling, being full ,after years living on whatever he could scrounge up after a day of work in his clinic.

Thinking about his clinic brought a pang of guilt to his conscious. By his reckoning, if had been nearly a month since he had last opened the place, and Darktown was surely the poorer for it. He was needed in the sewers, and he needed to return. Justice had been quiet as he slept, but he could feel the pressure of the spirit in thoughts. Justice would not let him remain here for much longer. Besides, he had been a drain on Fenris’ time, space, and kitchen long enough.

So, four days after Anders had first woken up in Fenris’ bed, he gathered his things and quietly left the manor, instead of meeting Hawke and Fenris as usual. He still tired easily, so he took his time descending into Darktown, making sure to stop at his few contacts to let them know he was back, and the clinic would be open again soon. 

Finally reaching the clinic door, it was a simple matter to unlock the door once with the keys still in his jacket pocket and once with a pass of his hand over the lintel, his magic following in its wake. He deposited his bag in the back room, by the pallet that he slept on (or, if the clinic was especially full, an extra bed for the sick), and began the slow process of cleaning up the front room. 

That night as he lay on the hard pallet on the floor, the sounds and smells of Darktown surrounding him once more, he desperately wished he was back in Fenris’ bed. It was too late for regrets, however, and besides. It wasn’t like Fenris would miss him.


	4. Fallout

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Anders spoke up, “I didn’t expect you to show up here.” The words were carefully neutral, and a quick look at Anders’ face was enough to tell Fenris that the mage was much more upset than he let on. Fenris looked down and away. _

Fenris woke up angry. This was not unusual — he had felt some level of anger near-constantly for close to the last decade. That this anger was focused on Anders was, again, not particular unusual of the last year. That this particular flavour of anger had hurt underneath in was what made it stand out in Fenris’ mind. After a week of feeding the mage, letting him sleep in Fenris’ own bed, caring for the mage — to have him vanish without any sort of by-your-leave! It was insulting, is what it was.

The first time that Fenris had seen Hawke, after Anders left, Hawke had barely entered the mansion before yelling about how it was irresponsible for Fenris to have let Anders go back to sleeping in his clinic, barely recovered as he was. Fenris had growled so ferociously that Hawke stepped back enough that he could slam the door in the man’s face. It was not as though Fenris was unaware that Anders was barely healed, he did not need Hawke’s judgement. His words stirred something that felt suspiciously like guilt, and that was not a feeling Fenris particularly wanted to associate with Anders.

Fenris was angry at Anders for leaving, Hawke for assuming the worst of him, and himself for letting the mage worm his way into Fenris’ thoughts. With Anders living so near, he had been lulled by the mage’s apparent helplessness and the way that he needed so much. Fenris had felt _useful_ in a way that he had not in… Far too long to think about. Anders would eat the food that he had made, never complaining when it was burned around the edges or undercooked. When the mage sat on the bed that Fenris had claimed as his own and blinked his sad eyes around the small room, Fenris wanted to pull at the skin on the man’s face until the wrinkles had all disappeared, and worse than that, pull a blanket around his far-too-thin shoulders. When Anders gave him a small smile in response to some comment, there was an odd swooping sensation in the pit of his stomach. He told himself it was indigestion, and watched the mage carefully to make sure that he had not poisoned them with his mediocre cooking.

And now Anders had left. Abandoned Fenris like so much waste, to languish in the filth of his sewer, to waste away, feeding his life into humans too blind to see the gift they were being given. Fenris screamed his rage and punched a nearby wall with enough force to break a hole in the plaster. He yelled again, this time lighting his bands and luxuriating in the pain they brought. He needed something to anchor himself in the present. Living so close to the mage had made him forget that Anders was dangerous, was _saarebas_, and must be watched.

He gathered weapons and armour he had not felt the need to wear in too long to think about, and left the mansion. Midmorning meant that it was late enough that most of the people milling about were minor nobles and merchants. Fenris bared his teeth at anyone who dared to make eye contact with him. _Just try to start something,_ he glared out from under his bangs. _I am just spoiling for a fight,_ his posture proclaimed.

***

Anders did not think that anyone truly cared for him, and had not for many years. Therefore, Hawke storming into the clinic barely a day after he had left the comfort of Fenris’ home was a surprise, to say the least.

“Hawke?” Anders was taken aback the expression on Hawke’s face — it was like a gathering storm, anger being pushed back by concern.

Hawke crossed his arms, forearms solid bars across his chest. They stared at each other for a moment, Anders’ eyebrows raising slowly. “You’re all right? Better?” Hawke’s voice was abrupt and almost startling.

Anders’ eyes strayed around the clinic. It was a slower afternoon: Anders supposed that the word had not yet spread of his return. “Yes,” He shrugged and pulled his coat closer to him. Justice was still so close to the surface, and he struggled a little to deflect before giving in and telling the truth. “This is where I am needed.”

Hawke’s face softened and his mouth twitched up in a smile. “Well, nobody can argue that.”

“What brings you here, other than some — frankly unnecessary — worrying? You never come here if you can help it.”

Hawke grimaced. “Please don’t freak out, but I was asked by Ser Emeric—”

“A Templar!” Justice rolled restlessly under Anders’ skin, but he managed to calm the spirit enough to listen to Hawke’s next words.

Hawke raised his hands in surrender. “I know, I know! I thought it would be easier to at least see what he wants first. That way we can, you know, decide to kill them all later.” He grinned at Anders, showing off the crooked grin that never failed to make Anders’ heart thump hard.

“Fine. What did this Emeric want?”

“Apparently there has been a few missing women, and neither the Guard nor the Templars think it's important enough to investigate. I just wanted to see if I should lead him on a wild goose chase because they are alive and well away from the city, or if there is any wait behind his claims.”

“A wild goose chase seems like the best option regardless,” Anders replied drily. “But give me their names, and I’ll check with my contacts.”

“So far only a mage named Mharen.” Hawke hesitated a moment, “But Anders, he thinks it's connected to Ninette de Carrac’s disappearance.”

Anders looked at him and frowned. “She’s almost certainly dead, we found her hands.”

“I know. That’s why I’m worried.” Hawke gripped Anders’ shoulder with one hand. “If you find anything, please let me know? I don’t want the Templars hunting down a woman my mother’s age. Especially if she’s gotten out of that place.”

Anders could not help the smile that pulled at his mouth. No matter how many times Hawke professed his support of mages, it was always surprising. Anders felt that he could not help but love the man.

“Don’t worry, Hawke. I’ll look into it. Mharen, you said? And Ninette?”

Hawke’s smile grew and he squeezed Anders’ shoulder. “Thank you! I’ll see about getting some supplies delivered, now that you are back on your feet. I have the money to spare!”

“That’s right!” Anders poked Hawke in the chest. “You never said you were an Amell! I suppose it should be obvious, trouble runs in your blood.”

Hawke gasped and placed his hand over his chest in faux shock. “Why I never!” He placed his other hand over his eyes and swooned with all the melodrama of an Orlesian noble lady. “How dare you impinge my honour, serah!”

Anders laughed. “Hey now, how many times have you said, ‘it’s just a quick outing’ and end up stumbling on bounties? You can’t walk through Lowtown without stumbling across at least two separate gangs!”

Hawke straightened up with a grin. “I take it you know a cousin?” There was genuine curiosity in his tone — something that Anders should have expected, considering that Hawke had not even met his uncle before coming to Kirkwall, let alone any extended family.

“Yes, the Commander of the Grey,” Anders shrugged. “I suppose she’d be your cousin? We were in Kinloch Hold together too.”

“Really?” Hawke’s expression was something Anders could only describe as dog-like in it’s enthusiasm, and he felt a wash of affection for the man. “I wonder if I could write a letter…” Hawke darted forward and gripped Anders in hug, squeezing the breath out of him, before just as suddenly letting go and bounding out of the clinic.

Anders shook his head in chagrin, even though he could not quite suppress the smile he could feel on his face. Hawke was a whirlwind of a man, and Anders would have it no other way.

***

Fenris’ day was getting worse by the minute. After he had left his house, he was stopped by a fake guardsman asking to see his residency paperwork or “be escorted out of Hightown,” and now Fenris had blood in his gauntlet and it was going to be a pain to get out by the time he returned to the mansion. Then, as he was passing through the Lowtown bazaar, a human with no time to spare for a knife-ear nearly ran Fenris over with his donkey, and to make matters even worse, the animal defected on Fenris’ foot. By the time that Fenris arrived into the sewer-covered, claustrophobic passages of Darktown, his bad mood had darkened into the truly black.

“Mage!” He called, stomping into the clinic.

“Wait yer flea-bitten turn!” A woman stuck out her elbow, thunking it against Fenris’ breast plate. The abrupt stop made some of the red clouding his vision clear, and he looked up and around at the crowd. Fenris knew, intellectually, that Anders was a healer and that he worked in Darktown, but somehow he had never realized the reality of the situation. The clinic was filled with filthy humans and elves, clearly denizens of Darktown. A few of them were coughing into rags, standing slightly away from the main group, and Fenris spied yet another group with obvious injuries. The cots — that previously Fenris had never paid attention to — were filled with bodies of all sizes and surrounded by loved ones. But clearly the centre of attention was Anders himself.

From his vantage point, he could see that there was a small boy on the cot in front of the mage. The boy appeared to be in a great deal of pain, as there was a piece of wood sticking out of the boy’s stomach. The lyrium brands burned with remembered pain as Anders began a spell. Fenris watched, alarm and fascination warring with each other, as the piece of wood slowly but surely pushed its way out of the boy, finally landing with a clatter on the ground. As soon as it did so, the quality of the spell changed, becoming more focused, and Fenris could see beads of sweat gather on Anders’ forehead. Finally, the tension in the boy’s face eased, and Anders’ spell ended. Fenris watched the mage lean heavily on the cot for a moment before straightening with obvious effort, and pulled a long bandage out of a box by his feet. He began to wind it around the boy’s midsection, as two adults — what Fenris could only assume where the boy’s parents — crowded closer. 

Fenris edged closer, his curiosity getting the better of him. Anders had pulled out a bottle of green glass and was handing it to the boy’s parents. “ — This every few hours for the first two days, then every morning and night for the next fortnight. As long as he still has pain when he moves, he should drink it every night after that.” Anders sounded exhausted to Fenris’ ears, but the two adults were nodding and smiling at the man. 

Fenris clenched his fist, the metal talons of his gauntlet biting into his palm. How dare he sound so tired! It was an insult to Fenris, to the bed and the food that he had provided. Another elbow to his side made him blink, and he realized he was growling under his breath. The woman glared at him out of the corner of his and hissed, “If ye can’t be patient, ye gotta go!” Fenris glared out from under his brows, but retreated to a wall. 

The rest of the day was spent in something that Fenris could only describe as a stupor. He was used to standing still for hours on end, becoming a part of the scenery, however little he had used the skill in recent years. Throughout the day he witnessed Anders help heal several more injuries, though none as serious as that of the boy’s. There were several old people whom Fenris gathered were regulars and flirted with Anders. There was a few parents with their children, complaining of the usual childhood illnesses, and these Anders always had some sort of snack for them. Fenris frowned at this — Anders had not been back here for several months, so the fresh fruit would have been rotted away, as well as Anders had not had the time nor the space to store much. Was he giving away his own food? With the rate that the mage had eaten when living with Fenris, Fenris knew that Anders needed much more food than he could possibly keep in this hole.

Finally, the crowd thinned out left. Anders sighed heavily before closing the doors and putting out the lantern at the front. “I know you’re here, Fenris,” he said. Fenris started, coming back to himself with a jolt. He had not taken notice of his body for hours, and now he was aware that his knees and lower back were aching from the forced stillness.

“You might as well help clean up if you aren’t going to leave,” Anders called over his shoulder. Anders picked up a broom and began to sweep the floors. Fenris nodded, not caring if Anders could see the movement or not, and shook out the tingling in his limbs before moving to the cots and carefully beginning to fold the blankets. 

The pair worked in silence for several minutes, before meeting in at the back of the main room where Anders clearly kept his medical equipment and supplies. Fenris contented himself with folding bandages while the mage organized the more volatile ingredients.

Finally, Anders spoke up, “I didn’t expect you to show up here.” The words were carefully neutral, and a quick look at Anders’ face was enough to tell Fenris that the mage was much more upset than he let on. Fenris looked down and away.

“I… did not expect to be here either.”

Anders sighed heavily and rested a hip on the counter. Another stolen glance told Fenris that he had crossed his arms and was staring at Fenris in frustration and something that Fenris could not quite define. “_What_ are you doing here?” 

The tone was sharp enough that Fenris flinched, then realized that the ability to stand still for hours was not the only thing that had come back from his time as a slave. He snarled before forcing his shoulders back and his eyes up. He was the equal, if not the superior to this mage, and he would act like it!

This time it was Anders’ turn to flinch. Fenris frowned deeper — nothing he was doing was particularlydifferent from usual. As the silence dragged on and Fenris struggled to find words to put to his actions, Anders began to fidget before finally turning fully around and fiddling with the jars on the counter.

“It’s good that you came here, anyway,” The mage babbled. “Hawke stopped by and asked if I had heard of a couple of missing women. Perhaps you could ask around as well?” Fenris blinked in surprise at the sudden change of topic, and opened his mouth to reply but was interrupted by Anders again. “I know it’s a bit, well, uncouth of me to ask, considering all that I have taken from you these past couple weeks, but I’ve been gone so long and the people need a healer. There’s only so much Lirene and the others can do with herbs, and—”

“Mage!” Perhaps Anders would have gone on indefinitely, but Fenris’ voice cut through the tirade. “Anders,” He said, slightly quieter. “I can help with this.” He cautiously stepped forward and laid a hand on Anders’ shoulder, carefully keeping the talons away from the mage’s jacket. The thing had taken far too long to clean in the first place, Fenris did not want to be stuck repairing it. The muscles under his palm were tense and stiff, so Fenris exerted a little bit of pressure. Anders resisted for a moment, and then relaxed all at once.

“Then you’ll help?” Anders’ voice was much quieter than before.

Fenris nodded decisively before realizing that Anders likely could not see him. “Yes. I will help.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Woof. That's about 8 months late. I'm going to attempt to stick to a more regular posting schedule but no guarantees, I'm about to go into my last year of school and that'll be a rough one. Do not fear! This is far from abandoned, I've got 3 more equally as long parts planned out and ideas to spare. Thank you for sticking with me!!

**Author's Note:**

> Hey let me know what ya'll think! This has been something I have been vaguely working on for the last couple years, and it is in no way done, but I have big plans. I have about 10k of this written already, and will be posting every few days or so until I run out of pre-written stuff and then it'll be sporadic from there. Hold on to your horses~


End file.
